


Benjamins

by gala_apples



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Orgy, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 08:11:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9595316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: Five times a mound of cash affected Mica.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for rt femmeslash week Day One: FAHC

Mica’s sixteen and extremely sick of the design of her room. It’s only been six months since the last interior decorator, but what can she say? Her tastes are ephemeral. 

Unfortunately for current-her, they always have been. Her all time shortest decorating phase was the purple paint and smiley faces theme. That managed about seven weeks. Nothing’s lasted more than a year. Because of her constant changing, Dad’s foot is now down. She can only have a professional consultant once a year. Between those times it’s up to her to change what she wants, her budget being only her allowance. She really thought this shades of red thing was going to work. Red and velvets and art, it should be Renaissance chic. But a few days ago she woke up from a horror-movies-before-bed inspired nightmare, and for a few seconds thought her walls were bleeding. The anxiety stuck with her the whole day. Not to mention once she saw it she couldn’t unsee it. Her bedroom still looks like a room of gore to her.

Mica doesn’t like tension with her dad. Challenging any part of the decorating rule will cause it in spades. That’s what has her first at Sherwin Williams, getting a icy shade of blue and some primer, then in her room with two fans blowing the odor out the open window.

Next step is rearranging her art. Mica still likes the prints she has; they’re mostly fandom based and you don’t just change the anime and tv you like for aesthetics’ sake. That said, all the nails where things used to hang are in the wrong places. The nails are scattered, and she wants a full wall of art now. Mica takes each frame out of the box she stacked them in prior to painting, and puts them on the floor. This way she can rearrange them as many times as she wants to find the winning configuration for her picture wall.

When she’s hammering in her third nail she fucks up. She fucks up hard. The hammer completely misses the nail and bashes through the drywall. In wide eyed shock Mica lets go. Only for a second, but that’s long enough for the weight of the head to affect the delicate hanging balance. The entire thing tips and falls into the wide hole she’s made.

“Well fuck my entire life,” Mica groans. 

She stands still for a second, trying to decide what to do next, then heads for the garage to get the ladder. Mica’s not sure how insulated the wall is. Maybe the tool did just thud to the bottom, between studs. If so, she can’t exactly rip out all the drywall just to get it. But if it’s insulated, maybe the claw of the hammer got caught somewhere high enough that she can shove her arm in the hole and reach it.

Mica climbs a few steps up the ladder, until she’s at face level. Then she awkwardly contorts until she can press her cheek against the drywall and really be at face level. A shine of her flashlight shows something so bizarre that at first Mica doesn’t believe it. A second, longer look doesn’t show anything different. There really _are_ bundles of cash hidden in the wall, white-green and curved with elastics.

Mica’s not stupid. She’s wondered a few times how her dad manages the lifestyle they lead without seeming to do anything. His explanation never wavers; popular commercial acting overseas, before Youtube and memes were a thing. That’s not the kind of money you put behind drywall though. Commercial money is bank account money.

Maybe it’s time to reconsider what dad’s told her about his career, such as it were.

***

Mica’s nineteen and she’s had sex with Amber more times than days they’ve been together. It’s a fling if there ever was one, and all the more fun for it. But in all the ways they’ve messed around, proper stripping naked and getting under a comforter hasn’t been covered yet. It’s a version Mica’s determined to try today, multiple obstacles be damned. 

Honestly, it would probably be easier to do it at Mica’s parents’ house, as compared to her shared dorm room. It’s not that far of a drive from campus, maybe half an hour. Mica doesn’t know if Amber’s apartment sharing friends know about her. She doesn’t even know if they know Amber’s a lesbian. They haven’t made it there either. But Mica’s parents know she’s bi, and hardly care. She still doesn’t want to bring Amber home. It just feels weird to bring home a date, when they’ve both decided things aren’t that serious. When they _can’t_ be that serious.

Amber follows Mica to her room. There’s no guarantee that they’ll have the space to themselves, at least at first. They might have to pretend to study for a few minutes before Sophie graciously bows out. It’s time Mica’s willing to waste, to get Amber in a bed, as compared to the previous vertical surfaces.

It comes as a bit of a surprise to open the door and have some blond boy casually laying on her bed. Granted, most nights Mica can’t be bothered to return to her bed, but it’s still hers. 

“Get the fuck off my bed.”

The blond boy sighs. He sits up, reluctance nearly audible. “Wow, a jerk roommate with a dorky sister. This is really my year. Why is this necessary, Soph?”

Sophie doesn’t react to her friend’s bitching, but Amber does. “Would a sister do this?” She tilts her head for a kiss in the funny little way glasses wearers do, and really goes to town on Mica’s mouth. Mica’s more passive than she usually is. She doesn’t really kiss for men’s benefits.

“Dunno. I guess you could be V.C. Andrews style siblings.”

Mica wants to snicker at the reference but instead makes a face. She’s not giving Sir Fuckboy here the satisfaction of a laugh. Not when he made the racist assumption of two black people standing together being related. Also, there’s the matter of Amber just using her as a show for dudes.

“Can I point out that you’re still on my fucking bed?”

The guy rolls his eyes as he stands up. “Jesus Soph. Can you make her not be here the next time I pick up?”

“I’ll see you later Donovan,” Sophie answers, apparently determined to stay neutral.

A minute ago Mica was counting the seconds until she could slip the bra straps off Amber’s shoulders. Now she is emphatically not in the mood. She does her best to talk Amber out of the room kindly, then closes the door behind her.

“And what exactly was that all about?” Mica demands. She likes to think she’s not a roommate from hell. She doesn’t snore, she doesn’t love an opposing music genre, and she gives privacy when it’s needed. That all said, sometimes a girl gets a cold and a stuffed nose. Sometimes a girl needs to jam out to Carrie Underwood’s Before He Cheats. And sometimes a girl needs to know what the fuck is going down in her room when she’s not around.

“You have to promise not to freak out.”

“When has a comment like that _ever_ resulted in the promise being kept? Because it feel like it’s never.”

Sophie sighs. “Come on Mica. You’re the one who said you wanted to know.”

“Fine. Whatever. I won’t freak out.”

Sophie goes to her closet and pulls out a suitcase. She unzips the lid and levers up the red canvas. Inside are two things Mica wouldn’t have guessed about her roommate as recently as twenty minutes ago. The first is a large ziploc bag full of pills, at least a few hundred. The second is the bottom of the suitcase is full of haphazardly tossed in money. From a quick glance, mostly twenties and fifties. Sophie must deal in sets rather than single pills.

Sophie’s watching her intently, like she’s expecting that freak out any second now. Unlikely. It’s not like it’s the first time Mica’s seen drugs. She lives in Los Santos. An expensive private school only meant more expensive, elite drugs. No one would be caught dead doing meth when painkillers were forty a pop. She’s just a little surprised that it hasn’t come up before now. Shouldn’t Sophie have tried to sell her on it?

“They’re not even in bundles,” Mica gestures to the cash. At least her dad -whatever he did to earn it- was organised. 

“Every time I had anything wrapped to the nearest hundred I needed change in a different denomination. You know how many paper wrappers I went through?”

“No, I don’t. How long have you been doing this?”

“Basically since I registered. Even sold a handful from my pocket on the campus tour when I was still in high school. You want in?” Sophie asks. 

Mica can see how it could be a good thing. It would be lucrative, for starters. Selling drugs isn’t exactly a small market in any university, and this city has the highest crime per capita in North America. Mica would bet a lot more students do drugs than don’t. That’s a lot of demand for supply.

“No, I don’t think I do.” It’s not a moral high horse thing. She’s not exactly opposed to crime. Dealing just doesn’t fit her personality.

***

Mica’s twenty three, and having a quarter life crisis. Getting engaged on a whim was such a spectacularly bad idea, Mica can’t even. Blame the romantic rushing waters of Niagara Falls, or the pretty bling, but for a few weeks she completely forgot about how long-term incompatible they actually are. By the time she remembered that neither she nor Juliet would be happy together ten years from now -mixed opinions on career objectives, staying in the US, and children- it was too late. They’d already told everyone. Coworkers, family, friends, Facebook enemies for the purpose of gloating. Mica had tried to roll back the clock, go for their fairly solid dating relationship. Juliet had been horrified that Mica would volunteer them for the humiliation of retraction. Ironically the suggestion set off a relationship breaking argument. Personally Mica thinks ‘we’re not quite ready for this wedding’ is a less embarrassing statement than ‘X didn’t show up at the altar’, but what the fuck does she know?

They’ve talked it out. Juliet is willing to try again, slow her Specific Milestones At Specific Times roll. Mica has some doubts though. Her fairly strong sense of fidelity is wavering, and has started picking up on other women. For example, the cosplayer friend who was the first to respond to Mica’s in hindsight bitter Facebook post about needing to couch surf.

Meg smells like grapefruit. It’s strongest at breakfast, since she usually rubs in her lotion as she’s waiting for her bagel to char into the gross cindery blackness she swears is delicious. Mica can’t imagine it being anything but revolting. Still, she eats her cereal in the kitchen rather than flee like Lindsay does because she loves the scent of grapefruit. Okay, and maybe she likes seeing Meg rub lotion into her legs while she wears an oversized t-shirt, a little bit. So sue her. Mica’s only human. A very horny, bisexual leaning towards woman human.

Mica knows the proper thing to do now that she’s on better terms with Juliet is to take her scattered belongings out of Meg’s house and move back into the house she’s contributing to the mortgage of. They might not be fully back together, but they can at least share a house without constant awkward silence and both of them looking for excuses to leave and work overtime. She doesn’t see a problem with sharing a bed either. It’ll be as chaste as when the whole senior class had to double up for the San Diego trip. There might even be the same stack of pillows so her boxer clad hip doesn’t touch her bedmate’s and get her ‘talked to’. But Mica can do it, and she _should_ do it because it galls her to be spending so much of her paycheck on something she can’t use.

There’s the problem of Lindsay, though. Mica doesn’t think they’re dating, but she’s got a room in this four bedroom house, and is a constant presence. It bothers her that Lindsay’s waiting on the sidelines to fill every crevice she’s leaving. Mica likes Lindsay, don’t get her wrong. Lindsay’s cute, and funny, and swears like a sailor in a way that Mica relishes, having grown up in a swear jar household. It’s just Lindsay shouldn’t get Meg all to herself.

It’s a lot to think about. She’s spent a lot of the last three weeks thinking about what to do with her life, especially when Meg’s not home to distract her. This isn’t the kind of thing Mica can just accept advice for. She has to figure out what will make her the happiest, or at least if there are other values, like financial stability or saving face, that matter to her more than happiness. 

Two sounds happen back to back; a loud door slam and a wild peal of laughter. It’s like nothing Mica’s heard before. At least not in real life, cartoon witches sometimes manage something like it. It’s enough to make Mica leave the guest room to investigate.

“I’m telling you, we’re not going to regret RWBY breaking up. Michael’s already started farming some prospects. Arryn can go legit. Kerry can stop feeling so much pressure with a flagship role. And look at this shit!”

Mica waits in the doorway until Lindsay’s done talking to draw attention to herself. “When you say RWBY, do you mean notorious gang RWBY?”

“Uhhhhhh,” Lindsay drones. Clearly no believable excuse is coming to mind.

“We thought you were working today,” Meg accuses.

“Jennifer wanted to switch shifts. That is a nice pile of cash,” Mica comments, looking at the haul they’ve crammed into the duffle bag, now unzipped. “And you two got it yourself? I guess you must have, since you said that RWBY broke up? It wasn’t in the news though.”

“It was amicable. Mostly,” Meg amends. “Shoot-outs of furiously shattering gangs make it on the news. Quiet dissolutions don’t.”

Mica nods. That makes sense. After all, how would the media even know if it wasn’t told through assassinations and explosions? “So you two are still together?”

“We’re thinking about developing something new. Basically everyone is. Most criminal life types don’t just take a fuckin’ office job one day.” Lindsay laughs, and Mica has to admit she can’t see the woman being a great receptionist. And she has to admit that differences in DnD axis placement was another long term issue with Juliet. It’s hard for chaotic neutral to stick with lawful good for too long.

“I want to be in your crew.”

Meg crosses her arms. “Have you ever committed a heist before?”

“No.”

“How about a crime? Ever commit a crime? Anything?” Lindsay probes.

Mica attempts to stand up for herself. “Look, everyone has to start somewhere. You were newbs once too.”

“We’ll think about it. A trial run, maybe.”

“You have to prove you have some kind of skill set.”

“I will,” Mica says. She’s not sure what yet, but she’s going to do something to make a mark on Los Santos.

***

 

Mica’s twenty four and basically all her friends are getting naked around her.

As a person who tends to run on a platform of ‘not my fault, dude’, Mica has a keen eye for knowing what to blame a situation on. That’s what makes this manna from god half frustrating. She’s always been a believer in plausible sex, limiting her to about one percent of porn available. Yeah, she’s had jerk off fantasies about orgies. Honestly, who hasn’t? But she’s always started them from semi-reasonable platforms, and this doesn’t follow any of them. 

Getting really drunk and messy doesn’t fit. Some of the crew have bought bottles from the staff, but a few of the Always Open Crew are straight edge losers, and Mica’d bet less than half of the rest are tipsy. Nor does the companion excuse of really stoned slash high-on-fill-in-drug-here work. The straight edgers of course continue to have their foot down, and none of the people Mica knows would partake have actually taken anything. And it’s not Gemma and Christy’s fault. Yeah they’re fooling around now, yeah they’re the only established couple, but they didn’t start this. 

The only thing that makes remotely any sense is the surroundings getting to them. Society says a lot of things about strip clubs. It says ugly men waste away their wallets and lives in them. It says women are supposed to find them demeaning and gross and feel sorry for the dancers. It paradoxically says cool women will go there with male friends and coworkers to show they can be one of the guys. It says the women are all pathetic and have daddy issues. 

Maybe those things are true in other places, Mica doesn’t know. She lives in Los Santos, and things are different here. Going to a strip club isn’t horrifying. It’s common entertainment, like going to the movies. Working as a stripper can only be considered a good job. A career, even. There’s always demand, and there’s low turn over. In a city where life and death are so charged owning your sexuality is important. There’s no shame is seeing someone half naked and wanting to get off. Or getting half naked for the ego boost of making people want to get off. Mica’s not cranky that the high sensuality of The Clam has caused her crew to do things she never thought would happen in real life. She’s just annoyed she never saw it coming. Foresight is half the battle of deflection of blame, and usually a skill of hers. 

The Always Open Crew’s latest job had required a lot of set up in the The Clam. Now that it’s over, a success, this is where they’re partying. And partying they fucking are. Earlier Mariel was focused on getting money into the right accounts. Currently she’s focused on burying her head in Meg’s cleavage, chasing the champagne she poured. Jack, on loan from FAHC, has her shorts off and is unabashedly trying out moves on the pole. Lindsay’s got her hands firmly on Kdin’s ruffled ass. Barbara is falling to her knees in front of Kara. Not to mention that all the strippers are still hard at work, apart from the one who’s equipment Jack has usurped. Mica wonders for a second if they’ve ever seen something like this, tables covered in sorted piles of cash and rare gems, before snorting. They’re strippers in Los Santos. This is probably a standard Thursday.

Under normal circumstances Mica would be a happy to have an orgy with any number of AOC members. Everyone is hot in her own way, and Mica is at a time in her life when she feels the more sex the better. These are not normal circumstances. Included in the scrum of people whose basic activity level is ramping from pg13 to R are Meg and Lindsay. Mica’s had a crush on both of them for a while. She’s been smart enough to not say anything, but there’s no denying it. There’s also no denying that they’re both actively participating. So with the fresh confidence of the insane -which really just means she has situational awareness, this is all insane - Mica steps up to Kdin and Lindsay, who are intensely kissing as Lindsay’s hands start to play with the bottom hem of Kdin’s dress. 

“Can I borrow her,” she asks of the curly haired woman. She’s not sure what she’ll do if Kdin says no. Cry, maybe.

“I think Ashley’d be up for continuing where Lindsay left off, so sure.” Kdin smiles and briefly touches Lindsay’s shoulder, elegant bracelets skewing before resettling when her arm drops down. Mica wishes her a sincerely good time with Ashley, but can’t actually be bothered to track her progress across the room. Not when it’s time to secure her other partner. She stands on her tiptoes to kiss Lindsay, then propels her towards Meg.

“I think we should all come tonight. At least twice. Any opinions about how that goes down?”

“Who goes down?” Meg laughs at her own dumb joke, chest shaking. She’s shirtless now, thanks to Mariel, and her breasts are shiny with saliva and alcohol. Mica’s never been more turned on in her life.

“Whatever we do, we should do laying down. It’ll clear up some of the height difference,” Lindsay suggests.

“We’ll figure out something.” Taking charge like this isn’t good for her constant strive for plausible deniability, but screw it. Mica can own this one thing. Hopefully there won’t be too much regret to face in the morning.

***

Mica’s twenty five. Today. She’s twenty five today, and this morning she talked to her dad on the phone, and tonight the crew will probably have gifts and booze for her, but right now she’s in for a different birthday present. It says as much on the note either Lindsay or Meg’s stuck to the fridge; meet me in the master bathroom. Oddly enough they have pretty similar writing. Forensic graphologists aint’ got shit on them.

Mica goes to the bathroom expecting one or both of her lovers to be in the massive shower ready to have sex with her under the deluge of water. That or a less sexy but still luxurious hot bath to be set up, pile of scented bubbles as high as the roof. What she’s not expecting is for Lindsay and Meg to surprise her as soon as she enters the room. They each grab a side of her and hustle her to the cleared out towel rack. While she’s still too stunned to struggle both women take a pair of handcuffs and cuff first her right, then her left hand to the metal bar. The position forces her to kneel.

“Uh, guys. What the hell?”

Lindsay smiles at her. “Your birthday present isn’t ready and you are a snoop.”

“I’m a spy! Give me a break!” Physically holding her away from her gifts seems like a bit much, in Mica’s opinion.

“Hey, I think your skill set is hot,” Lindsay replies with placating hands. “It just doesn’t work right now. So we’re gonna leave you here for a little bit, until we’re ready.”

Mica would cross her arm and pout, if she could. She’s already imagining what kind of predicament bondage she can put her girlfriends in, come September and March.

“Oh, but don’t worry,” Meg says, coming back into the en suite with a large wrapped box in hand, festooned with a ribbon. “While we’re working on your main gift, we came up with a side gift, as a way to keep you from getting bored.”

She puts the box down on the tile in front of Mica and pulls the ribbon. Someone’s gone to the trouble of wrapping the box so the lid just pulls off, instead of the normal wrap the full outside then rip off. Meg’s humming Happy Birthday as she reaches in and pulls out ... something. Mica’s not entirely sure. It looks like a weird old iPod docking station, sort of, except the outside has a pattern of stacks of cash and coins on it, and there’s a weird protrusion.

“Um, what?” Tech generally isn’t something she cares about. If the world thinks she needs it, Caiti conjures it up for her, usually before Mica even knows the item exists.

“It’s a Sybian,” Lindsay says with a smile like that makes it clear.

“Open up your stance,” Meg requests.

Between the two of them they get her panties off, her skirt up, and the machine thing situated.

“See you when the cake’s ready,” Meg says and kisses her on the cheek. 

A click of a button and the machine is turned on. The whole thing is vibrating, and all Mica can think is Meg wasn’t wrong. Her orgasm is building already and this machine isn’t going to stop. There’s no way she’s going to get bored, handcuffed here. She laughs, suddenly thinking of the Tumblr meme about the parlance differences of ‘fuck bitches get money’. Turns out she can get bitches and fuck money too. What a wonderful world.


End file.
